


Christmas Lights

by Jaeh



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Danny's Death, Drunkenness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't ship this but I asked for a prompt so I wrote it, Jon takes care of Tim, M/M, Pining, Sadness, Season 2, Tim doesn't like Christmas, Tim is sad, Tim reminisces, platonic if you squint, pre-slash i guess, unbetad we kayak like Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/pseuds/Jaeh
Summary: We find comfort in places we don't expect. And when Tim knocked on Jon's door one December evening, words were exchanged, and comfort was shared.
Relationships: Danny Stoker & Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	Christmas Lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SneakyBread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyBread/gifts).



> I swear, I already have The Hunt ready for Out of the Mouth of Babes, just need to edit it. It should be out today! :D That said, I wrote this because I wanted to write something so I asked Bread for a prompt again, and I basically did a storytime thing in our discord DMs.
> 
> Actually, y'know what, y'all should send me requests. I can't guarantee that I'll do all of them, but if your prompt sparks something in me, I'll do it when I'm craving some writing exercise. [Send them here, on my tumblr, ineffablynoice](http://ineffablynoice.tumblr.com), please! :D
> 
> Also, funny story, I actually don't ship JonTim, so I'm pretty proud that I was able to write something decent for them. Woo!
> 
> Oh, and unbetad, because once again I wrote this one shot on a whim.

It was so damn _ridiculous_ , s'what it was. Tim'd come home from Institute this Friday, the one Friday he hadn't any plans, and he'd been looking forward to a quiet evening of watching Die Hard and a bottle of lager waiting for him in the fridge. 

It was a nice day outside, for London standards, too. For one, it wasn't raining, and the air, though brisk, was refreshing after being stuck in the archives for a while, especially with his fucking paranoid boss, squirrelly workmate, and his suddenly frigid friend. 

_Are we really going to do this tonight, few days before Christmas, too?_ Tim scolded himself silently. He sighed, stuffed a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone.

He'd started walking rather aimlessly, just wanting to clear his head and maybe josh around on social media or whatever. Tim had been strolling for a while, and didn't realize that he'd made his way to the Kingston Christmas Market until he looked up and saw the beautiful display. 

Fairy lights lined the buildings, and webs of sparkling blues and whites spanned the space between structures around him. Christmas bells tinkled from speakers in the streets, and the opening notes of _Let It Snow_ floated in the air.

Tim froze, and slowly backed away. Then he ran. 

He ran until he couldn't hear the bustle of people and the whispers of the song in his ears. He stopped in the middle of a park, under a lone street lamp, his heavy breaths coming out in puffs of white.

He sank to his knees, panting heavily, and Tim rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes.

Sasha had asked him what he had against Christmas once. At that point they'd already known each other quite well, and he'd only had to say one word: Danny. 

Danny had _loved_ Christmas. He adored the lights, the songs, the tree, the gifts, the eggnog, making sure they did the whole thing proper, like it was a requirement that he needed to get As in. 

When he'd... Gone, Tim's tried his best to uphold his memory, and celebrated Christmas as properly as he could. 

But there was one big problem with that. 

With Danny gone, Tim had no one else.

So he'd simply stopped. Avoided all the shite that came with it, with the exception of the annual Insitute Holiday Party, and usually he'd just get mad drunk and bring home whoever the mistletoe and his peppermint stick could snag. It gave him quite a reputation in the Institute, and he welcomed every second of it. 

At least it had nothing to do about the joys of the damned holiday. 

Mad drunk, huh. It sounded like a grand idea about now. He stood up, and looked about him to get his bearings. The park was familiar, and he knew that just a stone's throw away he'd find a tube station. Then, he'd grab the largest bottle of cheap scotch he can find, and drink to the bottom of the damn thing. 

Even though it had never worked before, maybe, just maybe, this time it would help him forget.

\---

The moment Jon entered his flat, it was like most, if not all, of the paranoia he carried on his shoulders faded down to a mere buzz in the back of his head. Was it because he was now home and, technically, away from his main source of stress? 

He glanced at his satchel, which were filled with statements he'd been planning to read over the weekend. 

Maybe, maybe not. 

His fridge was sad and empty, as it usually was, and Jon sighed. There was half a jug of milk left, and he knew he had some Weetabix in the cupboard. There was dinner right there. 

He grabbed the jug and gave it a quick sniff test. 

Ugh. Whatever that was, that was _not_ milk anymore. Takeaway tonight, then. He should go shopping this weekend, grab a few frozen meals that would last him awhile. 

He'd called in enough for a small army (because leftovers were good for breakfast, lunch, and dinner tomorrow) when a knock came at the door.

There was no way in hell that was his food already.

Remembering how this whole mess started (or, rather, 'came to light' might be more apt), he grabbed the cricket bat he'd found at the charity shop, nudged the extinguisher closer _just in case_ , and peeked through his peephole. 

He could see nothing but a half-empty bottle of scotch obscuring whoever it was, and the person knocked again, louder this time. 

"Oi, you bloody tosser, I know you're in there."

Jon would know that voice from anywhere. He dropped the bat and kicked the extinguisher aside, and opened the door. "Tim?" 

"Hey, boss," Tim managed, a wide, toothy grin plastered on his face. His breath smelled like cheap alcohol. "You gonna let me in?"

"Uh..."

"You've no choice, I think," Tim half-yelled. "Coming through!"

Tim tipped forward with a snigger, and Jon did his best to catch the taller, larger, Asian man in his arms.

Jon fell backwards, the back of his head hitting, luckily, a small rug that was marginally softer than his cold, tile floor. Tim was sprawled on top of him, and the bottle of scotch landed on top of the rug. Jon reached for it before it spilt, and unceremoniously shoved Tim off of him. 

"Tim? What the hell are you doing here?" Jon asked as he stood up. He slammed his door shut and made sure to lock it, and faced the man still lying on the floor, cackling to himself.

"Shoulda seen your face," Tim said. "Thought I was one of those spooky things from your bloody statements, didn't you? Were you expecting another worm lady? Or maybe your death knocking at your door, like, like the former scary archivist lady?" 

Jon winced. He deserved that. Instead of responding, he reached for Tim's hand instead, and tried to make his archival assistant get up on his feet. "Come on, you're too drunk for this. Get on my couch and I'll grab you some water," he glanced at the half-empty bottle on his counter. "And some paracetamol, to hopefully stave off the headache coming your way in the morning." 

"Aww bossman, you're taking care of me," Tim mocked. "Who're you and what've you done with Jonny Sims?"

"Jon, thank you," Jon corrected with a grimace. "Come on, get on up."

"No, your floor's nice," Tim said, and yanked his hand back from Jon. Jon staggered forward and landed on top of Tim, limbs flailing. 

"Stop that!" Jon demanded, and Tim let out another laugh. He spat out some of Jon's greying hair from his mouth, and rolled out from under Jon. The two men got up, and Jon guided Tim to his couch and dropped him there.

He grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, and set it in front of Tim, who finished the glass like a man in the desert. Jon refilled his glass and handed him a couple of pills, which Tim obediently took, as well. 

"So, what _are_ you doing here? Not that I don't like your company, of course, but you haven't been here since..." _Since I've been promoted_ , Jon didn't say. He looked away. 

They were once good friends when they were in Research, or, at least, Jon had thought they were. When he'd got promoted, Tim (and Sasha, actually) had slowly withdrawn from him, and Jon, well, Jon did the same. 

He felt inadequate for the task at hand, and the few friends he'd managed to make at work had slowly faded from his life, and he wasn't even sure why. Did he do something? 

Quite probably. He'd never been good at understanding how to make friends, much less keeping them. By the point he felt like he's got his bearings with his new position, Tim and Sasha seemed to have settled as his mere assistants, and he didn't know how to resurrect the closeness they'd once had. There was now this boundary that formed, and Jon didn't know how to breach it. So he left it alone, even though some part of him felt like so something was scooped out of him and never returned.

"Donno, your flat was closer than mine, and the coppers were after me, so I'd thought I'd hide here," Tim slurred, and Jon tensed in alarm. 

"The police?"

"Nah, don't worry about them, just did some harmless drunk vandalism," Tim said. "Yanked the lights display off one of the shops, the bloody things. Absolute bollocks, this fucking holiday."

"Christmas?" Jon raised an eyebrow. "But you love Christmas, don't you? You always go on about how you look forward to the party HR puts on, and how you have your, ah, conquests, as you put it," Jon said. He averted his gaze. A part of him always felt slightly queasy whenever he saw Tim leave with someone. At first, he figured it was because of the idea that someone was going to have sex somewhere was really irksome. 

After a while, he realised that maybe a part of him wishes he was the one being brought home instead, but he always chased the idea away with a shot of whiskey mixed with a tiny bit of eggnog, as they usually served during said parties.

Which, Jon wanted to do now. There was still Tim's scotch on the counter, and so Jon stood up and took a long, deep swig. 

He sat back down on the couch beside Tim, who tried to get his alcohol back. "No, enough for you, you're drunk."

"You're no fun anymore," Tim said, a corner of his mouth curling into an adorable pout. 

Jon took another swig again. "I was never fun, take that back."

"You were, though, before this whole," Tim waved his hands in large, swooshing gestures. "Yanno, this, especially before the -" He put on pretend glasses and spoke into his hand, as if he was holding a portable tape recorder, "-and very much way way before the-" Tim gestured at the scars that peppered Jon's face, and pointed out the ones that were also on his own arms. "These and those, yanno? I'd liked you. Then you tried too hard, and I didn't know how to get you back."

"Sides, Jon, I never liked Christmas," Tim explained. He suddenly sounded a little more steady, a little soberer. "Christmas is an empty holiday for lonely people, like us!" His voice brightens mirthlessly, and he clinks his glass of water against Jon's booze. "Cheers!"

"Oh," Jon said, looking away. 

How did he not see it? The forced air of excitement Tim always radiated; Jon thought he was simply trying to tone it down, somehow. And the small, sad smile Tim gave whenever he sees the Holiday Tree in the main lobby of the Institute, and the way he sped past it sometimes when he seemed to have woken on the wrong side of the bed that day. 

Then there was the time when the theme the Institute chose was The Nutcracker, and for the rest of the Holiday, he didn't see Tim pass through the lobby, instead going through maintenance corridors that people rarely use. 

Jon exhaled. He'd been blind to his friend's plight, and got too caught up in his own muck that he forgot to look outside himself and care about those who once did the same for him.

"Look, Tim..." Jon started, but Tim shook his head. 

"Best be getting on, don't want to overstay my welcome," he said. "I mean, you value your-" he made a gesture with two fingers from both hands "-'privacy and safety', and might as well leave you alone to, well, enjoy those things you can't well provide to others." Tim clapped Jon on the shoulder, and shakily stood up. "Hardly the first time I'm staggering home drunk as hell, anyway, won't be the last. Don't follow me home, eh, boss? Don't have the patience for your spying this weekend."

"Tim, you shouldn't be out and about in your condition," Jon says, catching Tim's sleeve with his fingers. 

Tim yanks his arm away violently. "I'm fine, Jon, thanks for your concern. Now, I'm off."

Jon huffed. "There's no need for your vitriol-"

"And there's no need for your _paranoia_!" Tim shouted back, and he exhaled shakily. "Sorry. Look, I'll just-"

Jon knew he deserved that, but he won't let Tim go, not when he could do something to help. "No, please," Jon said. "I want you to stay. I want you here. Please, Tim." 

Tim stopped in his tracks and turned to Jon. He lowered his eyes and rubbed at them with the back of his hand. 

Jon wasn't sure, but he thought Tim was actually crying. "Fuck," Tim said, "I'm drunk crying like a fucking idiot."

"Come on, you need some rest. We both do," Jon said. Jon gave Tim a pat on the hand, and pulled him to the bedroom and deposited Tim on his bed. "Get comfortable, I'll take the couch."

"Bed's big enough for the both of us," Tim said, waggling his eyebrows at Jon, who sighed. 

"No, I don't do that - Tim, you're drunk, go to sleep," Jon reiterated, but before he could leave, Tim caught his hand. 

"Please don't leave me alone, at least not tonight."

Jon sighed. He looked at Tim, who was very much not looking at Jon. Jon gave him a nod and sat down on the bed beside him. 

Then the doorbell rang. 

Oh, that must be the food he'd ordered. 

He looked back at Tim, who'd managed to shuck off his trousers and was now slipping under the covers. "I'll be right back," he said, and hurried to get his takeaway. He looked at the carton of egg rolls and lo mein, and grabs the other carton of rice and orange chicken. The rest he shoved into the fridge.

He took two forks with him, because no way was Tim going to manage chopsticks in his state, and carried the boxes in his arms. 

Tim looked like he was about to doze off, but Jon nudged him awake. "You need something to soak up all that alcohol. Here, we're going to eat in bed," he said, unsure why he was even condoning this. Must be the alcohol talking. He continued, "I'll turn the telly to the first nature documentary I find, and we'll watch bees until we're both full and ready to sleep, alright?"

Tim nodded, and got the takeaway boxes offered to him. He smiled at Jon, and Jon's felt like whatever was hollowed out before was slowly being filled once more. 

"Thanks, Jon," Tim said. "Just...thanks for this. Even if... It's just for tonight."

Jon nodded. "You're welcome, Tim." He opened his own carton, and poked at the chicken inside. Without looking up, he said, "anytime, Tim. It doesn't have to be just for tonight. Anytime."

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I don't bite, prompts absolutely welcome. And if you want to find me on discord, drop me a message on tumblr so I can give you my ID.


End file.
